The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles
by August Fai
Summary: In which Draco writes his own life tragedy; Harry literally muses; and a calamity of events ensues.
1. Chapitre Un

A/N: Umm.

Dedication: To **Rach, Silver, **and **Jamie, **who all commented on my LJ and kept me going with this series. It's short, but they love me and I love them. Loff you, girls.

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Harry Potter. Well, I own the books and a Gryffindor scarf and the soundtracks and some calenders, but I don't own the copyrights.

_xx_

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

_Prelude..._

Draco Malfoy was such an angst whore. Oh yes, he was. Everything had to be dramatic with him; with lights and sparkle, and horror music, and all those tiny violins claiming to be the tiniest one in the world, and depressing one-liners with zing that made women cry. Everything had to be big, even when he was supposed to ignore it. If you met him, he would have asked you to call him Drama Queen, only it hurt his reputation too much.

DRACO: _/smiling smugly/ _Bow to me, weaklings.

**ACT ONE,**

**SCENE ONE**:

**Draco Malfoy Meets his Muse–Er, Star.**

SETTING: Everywhere you don't want to be

CHARACTERS: DRACO, HARRY POTTER

"_I,_" Draco Malfoy announced clearly and smugly at the breakfast table, in between a helping of cottage cheese and a couple of slices of thick pink bacon, "have begun to write a play."

The announcement was said so grandly that Goyle began to tap his spoon against his crystal glass, only to be glared at by a few people and have Pansy hiss at him from the side. "It's not a _wedding, _you idiot!" By the look on Draco's face, however, it could have bloody well been a wedding, or maybe even a funeral, if it was for some ickle Gryffindor. He was beaming for all the Slytherin table to see, and it was actually rather sick. It was like this practically every day: attention Seeker Malfoy would clear his throat, smile like he was the king of England, and then say something horribly mediocre, like, "This morning, I woke up first," or, "Everyone, I am bisexual," or, "Last night, I had a dream that concerned a half-naked Harry Potter."

Well.

"Oh, _are _you, darling?" Millicent purred across from him, taking the cottage cheese quickly as his eyes were diverted. "That sounds wonderful, really wonderful. How is it coming?"

The look on Draco's face slid cleanly off as he remembered that he actually hadn't begun _writing _it yet. In fact, he never intended to really write it down: the idea had hit him in the shower, as a great many number of things have–like the sudden urge to tackle Potter, or the repulsive, sick feeling of seeing Pansy without a top, or a bar of soap gone wildly astray. _Ooh, _his subconscious had tickled him in between bouts of rosemary mint shampoo, _I'm going to write a play! About my life! And it will be filled with angst! And horror music! And violins; and oh–it will have depressing one-liners that make women cry! _Ah, it had been such a fine idea.

"I don't exactly know," Draco finally answered as he watched Millicent shovel a spoonful of cottage cheese into her mouth. He looked away quickly. "I mean–my imagination is so _delicate_!" Everyone smiled knowingly. "Creative genius takes time, and all that–"

"Jazz."

"Excuse me?" Draco's ears twitched as he heard the four-letter-word come out of someone's mouth. "Who said that?"

"I did," came that voice again, and Draco's poetic senses tingled. The voice was slightly familiar with a tinge of honey and a sweet, slick sound, like the kind that buzzes your ear when they whisper into it. "You said 'all that', and I said 'jazz', Malfoy. Honestly. If you're going to write a friggin' play you need to know all the classic lines."

"Potter!" Pink pin-pricked Draco's cheeks as he turned to face the impending, stupidsonofabastard who was leaning against the wall leisurely, just looking on. "What the fuck are you doing here! And why do you always think you're so special that you get to intrude in on _my _personal conversations?"

"I," Harry Potter (for you cannot deny that it was he) replied with the same smug tone that Draco had used when he'd announced his play, "am here on special duty of Stick It Up Your Arse, It's None of Your Business, and it wasn't a personal conversation, Malfoy, because you were practically having it with the entire Slytherin table. That's not very personal, now is it."

Draco scowled and turned around fully so he was facing Harry's stomach. _Nice stomach. _No, not a nice stomach. _He'd be good as one of those naked nymphs they always have in plays. _Ooohshutthefuckup. "Potter, you–" Words had failed him, and he stood up and growled, baring teeth in only the way a respected Malfoy could bare teeth. It was strange, really, because in his mind his subconscious was writing down every single thing that was happening, and it went a little like this:

DRACO: _/spluttering/ _Potter–you–

POTTER: Oh, now, Malfoy. Don't get yourself so worked up over me.

DRACO: _/thinking: 'In which way?'/shaking head/ _You're asking for it, Potter. I was in the middle of a conversation and you–you just barge in like you think you're _all that jazz, _don't you!

POTTER: _/nonplused/ _Good, you used it!

DRACO: _/gritting teeth/ _Used _what?_

POTTER: 'All that jazz'! Well. _/smiling and looking across the hall/ _I have to go. It was nice making you angry, Malfoy. Good luck with your play.

_/POTTER walks away, leaving DRACO thoroughly disgruntled, and even more so as 'He's got a nice arse' runs through his mind./_

DRACO: _/slams his head on the table/ _Ohhh, no.

It was terribly strange how Harry was so unaffected by their whole spat; he was usually spitting and narrowing his eyes and exhibiting a large amount of teenage angst. But this time he was poking fun and grinning and making the whole thing seem like a little joke.

"What's Potter's deal?" Pansy quipped beside him, shaking her short black bob and wrinkling her nose. "He seems too happy. What's he smoking?"

"Do you really have to associate everything with Muggle drugs?" Theodore Nott snapped from a few places down. "You're always asking what someone's smoking."

"Sod off, Nott," Pansy sniffed impatiently, wrapping her hand around Draco's wrist. "Draco, Nott is making fun of me again."

"Oh for God's sakes, Pans–"

Draco tuned them out, thinking very hard and focusing on the head of black hair that was now seated at the Gryffindor table between that awful waif-like Weasley girl and The Bush–oh wait, that was Granger. Harry was smiling and talking and Draco thought of his play: _he could be the naked nymph. Or the naked Cupid. Or the kinky rapist...or the muse. The really sexy, mood-swinging, I-bet-he-looks-like-sex-on-a-dish-with-his-shirt-off kind of muse. _

After all, authors _always_ had muses, didn't they?

Draco purposely stabbed his forearm with one of the twines on his fork and winced. "Shit," he said aloud, "What the hell am _I _smoking?"

Pansy tittered.

_/SETTING: On the Quidditch pitch. DRACO has walked onto the pitch to fly a little only to see POTTER already out there, alone. DRACO swears and calls out to POTTER./_

DRACO: _/angry/ _Potter, get off of the field! I need to practice!

POTTER/_looking down and rolling eyes_/ I was here first, Malfoy, bugger off.

DRACO: I said get out!

POTTER: And _I _said get out! Can't you wait until I'm done, like a normal person?

DRACO: Excuse me? I am _not _an ordinary being, I am a _Malfoy, _whose demands should be _made. _And I am making a demand and it's not being fucking followed! _/stomping foot on the ground/ _This is upsetting me very much–it's not bad for my skin, you know!

POTTER: _/flying around a little/ _Ah, don't be such a drama queen, Malfoy.

_/He dips down and dismounts in front of DRACO, who is staring rather wide-eyed at POTTER./_

DRACO: _/a little startled/ _How'd you know?

POTTER: _/wiping his face/ _Know what?

DRACO: That– _/blushing slightly/ _–nevermind.

POTTER: _/staring quizzically; then suddenly grinning/ _Oh, you mean that you're a drama queen?

DRACO: _/stuttering; speechless/ _You–? You–

POTTER: _/walking in the direction of the locker rooms/ _It's not like you're trying to hide the fact that you like to make everything a big deal, and make everyone your cast, and pick me out as the evil bad guy. It was kind of, er, confirmed, when you made your play announcement at breakfast. Oh, it'll be a tragedy, won't it?

DRACO: _/following him/ _You're not allowed to say that, Potter. I do _not _make everyone my cast, and my life is not one big tragedy.

POTTER: _/scoffing/ _Of course it is, everyone's life is one big tragedy.

DRACO: Maybe for _you, _you sodding Boy Who Lived, but some of us actually lead mildly interesting lives. Why am I even talking to you anyway? I need to practice. Did you hear that? I'm going to practice and not flaunt my Quidditch _assets_–

DRACO: _/stops and looks away/_

POTTER: _/looks confused/ _Quidditch assets?

DRACO: I meant, I don't show off like you do. See you aroundPotter. Have a nice, tragic life.

_/DRACO walks away hurriedly and POTTER turns around, looking mildly amused./_

Playwrights usually make decisions on a whim, and then correct them later, because a play is in need of writing and one can't be bothered with silly decisions like who will play the Heartbreaker or the Naked Candy Striper. Draco did not have use for either in his life (he would have liked to have a Naked Candy Striper, but he didn't think his father would be willing to supply for that, he was too busy with his Naked French Veelas), but he made the decision to put Harry Potter in his play–as himself–and made a vow not to correct it later. If you made too many important scenes with a character in it, it would be such a pain to go back and correct everything, not to mention all the drama would be interfered with. _That _would be horrible.

He flexed his fingers before getting into bed, even though he wasn't going to write. His _mind _was going to be the busy one, he was sure. _Muses, Quidditch assets, drama queens, and all that jazz. _Draco sighed. Yes, Harry Potter was going to play a rather important role, and it was going to leave the women crying, all right.

_/DRACO MALFOY gets into bed and pulls the hangings around him tightly closed./_

_Interlude..._

He didn't like Broadway but he desperately wanted to know why everyone liked it so much when he could create his own one-man tragedy in a canopy bed. Pansy could clarify this. And so could, Draco would admit, a startled Zacharias Smith and a shocked Blaise Zabini. Draco didn't like classical music, even though he could play the piano and the violin. He wanted to know why the whiny strings intrigued people so much. So really, Draco wasn't interested in the real art of dramatics. He was interested in the Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles.

He wrote them. Harry Potter starred in them.

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE: -FIN-


	2. Chapitre Deux

A/N: There is nothing to say except enjoy, my pretties.

Dedication: To **Rach, Silver, **and **Jamie, **who all commented on my LJ and kept me going with this series. It's short, but they love me and I love them. I love you all. We are truly teh LJ whores. :)

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Harry Potter. Well, I own the books and a Gryffindor scarf and the soundtracks and some calenders, but I don't own the copyrights.

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

_Prelude..._

He didn't _choose_ the whimsical, witty, charming, cruel, decisive, devilish Potter to be his cast. It just happened. It happened all in one day and Draco had decided it on a whim. Everything seemed to happen out on the Quidditch field nowadays; or the locker, or against the lockers, or in the showers, or against the shower walls, or in the broom closet, or against the--well, you get it. Draco didn't know who Potter was anymore: for the moment he was the star actor, and Draco was the playwright, and whatever deserted place they were in was the setting, and their lines--their lines when something like this:

DRACO: _/advancing on HARRY, pulling on his tie, as if not knowing whether to tighten it or pull it off./_ I'll _have_ you, Potter.

HARRY: _/smirking, cocking his head./ _Go a-fucking-head.

And he would. Go afuckinghead, he means.

**ACT ONE,**

**SCENE TWO**:

**Draco Malfoy Writes his Life Tragedy In...**

**The Quidditch Pitch, the Showers, the Broom Closets, **

**the Locker Rooms, and his Fantasies**,

or,

**The Muse and the UST**

SETTING: Everywhere you don't want to be

CHARACTERS: DRACO _the playwright_, HARRY POTTER _the muse_, DP!Weasley _the dirt poor kid, _The Bush _Granger, _PANSY _the...friend_

After the great and beautiful yet sonofabastard-y Potter became Draco's muse–no, he means to say _cast_–, Draco found that he was able to concoct his plays in a number of various places, which included but was not limited to the Quidditch pitch, the Quidditch locker rooms, against the Quidditch locker rooms, the showers, against the shower walls, any broom closet of choice, and against the wall of said broom closets. The scenes he came up with were quite naughty, but all in all were satisfying to the Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles, and he would go to sleep dreaming about the scene that day, and he would wake up–well, you know.

Draco _admitted _that Harry Potter had Quidditch assets and was certainly _all that jazz. _But honestly, he didn't know how their whole torrid affair _started. _He was just strolling along, reviewing the latest scenes of his life tragedy, tuning out the usual bickering of Pansy and Nott, making Crabbe carry his books, etc, etc–and then there had come Potter, in all his muse glory. The following is terribly embarrassing, Draco knows, but it's true, and it's here for a record:

POTTER: _/walking with the Idiot Dirt Poor Weasley and The Bush/ _Oh, there's Malfoy. How's your tragedy coming?

DRACO: _/scowling/ _Perfectly _fine, _thank you.

POTTER: _/nodding/ _Alright. _/slight pause/ _So...did you include the bit about my 'Quidditch assets'?

DP!Weasley: _/startled/ _What?

The Bush: _/eyebrows raised/ Quidditch assets!_

PANSY: _/mouth open/ _Assets!

DRACO: _/surprised, but smirking/ _Well of course I didn't, Potter, you're not part of my honorable and desirable life.

DP!Weasley: Desirable my arse, Malfoy, I wouldn't want to have people lick my feet.

The Bush: Ron–

POTTER: _/cutting them off/ _Oh–that's too bad, then. It just seemed like something you would put down for, you know, the record.

_/POTTER walks on with DP!Weasley and the Bush, who are both obviously shaken. DRACO watches POTTER go for a few moments, then turns around, frowning, while PANSY follows, trying to ask him about said assets./_

They had been flirting. Oh God. You weren't supposed to flirt with your muse; it was too unorthodox for words, like flirting with your boss, or your enemy, or your Potions teacher.

But that's what they'd done, wasn't it? Flirted. Openly. And Potter had even mentioned the Quidditch assets thing, he remembered. It was all strangely asinine and yet very interesting, and that wasn't even everything. There were–_other things_–that merited stares and shocked glances and thoughts of _'Holy shit, what the fuck is going on?'._Draco wasn't stupid; he knew he was bisexual and liked guys just as much as he liked girls, but–_Potter? _O Great Wizard Merlin, who would have thought? Harry Potter was a person you could easily become engrossed with, Draco knew, but he didn't think he had lost that much...pride. To be smitten. With Harry Potter, the Muse who Lived, Worst Enemy, Keeper of Quidditch Assets, Naked Nymph–

–_damn!_

This was the dawning of some new chapter, and as soon as Draco realized it, he sure as hell wasn't going to let it get away.

He managed secret stares at suggestive glances across the room in Transfiguration over McGonnagal's voice, and Potter always knew where to find them and give them back. He saw Potter taking his time in the supplies closet in Potions because Draco sat near there, and boy did Potter do a good job of reaching up to the highest shelf–er, well. They didn't have a relationship and yet they did have one, and it was confusing and strange but they both liked it. Well, Draco did, anyway. It was his story, and he liked having all these natural twists to it, _and all that jazz._

They unknowingly met on the Quidditch field once, just like their first encounter, and their lines were inconspicuous and incognito; disarrayed and voluptuous. Picture this: two hormonal seventeen-year-old boys who were enemies, but weren't, standing together, too close, trying to make a memorable scene for themselves. Trying and not trying. It was dizzying: Draco liked it.

DRACO: What are you doing here, Potter?

POTTER: I wasn't _waiting _for you, if that's what it looked like.

DRACO: No? Really? Not trying to get noticed, like in Potions? Not trying to get me to stare back? Not pointedly arching your neck–

POTTER: Hey, _you _were the one that did all those things first.

DRACO: Except for the Potions one; you snarky little...

POTTER: Well, _you _gave off the vibes!

DRACO: _You _made yourself noticed!

POTTER: _/weary-sounding/ _When have I _not _been noticed?

DRACO: You–you know what I mean.

POTTER: Well, I didn't _think_–didn't _know–_

DRACO: You knew. You knew about me.

POTTER: I honestly didn't know anything.

_/there is a pause./_

POTTER: Are you going to leave?

DRACO: Potter, I am a seventeen year old bisexual male with raging hormones. You have been flirting with me for the past two weeks. We are standing together in the middle of a Quidditch field and– _/he touches his hair with his hand./ _–my hair is getting messed up. This is absurd. I am trying to write a play, and this is a crucial moment. _/narrowing his eyes/ _No, I am not going to _leave. _

POTTER: Oh. Well, in that case, then. _/taking a Snitch from his pocket/ _Want a round?

DRACO: _/blinking/ _'Scuse?

POTTER: Come on, Drama Queen. If you're not going to leave we might as well practice a little, especially since I managed to get this. _/indicating the Snitch, which is flitting around/ _So? How about it?

DRACO: _/blinking again, then grimacing/ _What the hell is your problem, Potter?

POTTER: Shut up, Malfoy. I may have a whole book of them, but you've got an entire encyclopedia. _/throwing the Snitch in the air/ _Come on, let me see you flaunt your Quidditch assets.

DRACO: Potter, I do believe you just stole my line.

POTTER: There wasn't a fucking copyright on it. _/mounting his broom and kicking off/ _Don't be such a prick, Malfoy.

DRACO: _/scowling for a moment, then angrily mounting his broom/ _Fine, _fine_–but you're not going to catch that damned Snitch, you hear me, Potter?

_/DRACO kicks off into the air and zooms after the Snitch; while POTTER follows him.../_

At the end of their rendezvous, when both of them were sweaty and tired and apathetic, they touched to the ground and walked wordlessly to the locker rooms. While Potter fiddled with the lock on his locker ("You _idiot, _why don't you just use your wand?"), he started talking, and Draco stood there, smelling like cold air and sweat, wondering what sort of drama this was going to turn into.

"So Malfoy, are you satisfied? You caught the Snitch five out of eleven times. Not bad, I guess," Potter mused (_mused!_), taking out a fluffy white towel, "considering you, and all."

Draco felt a surge of anger that was unlike a surge of heat; he didn't understand it, he was already hot. "Don't be so confident, Potter. Considering _your _standards–" Well, what were Potter's standards, anyway? Even if Draco did manage to grab the Snitch five times, Potter had gotten it six, and he had done it in ways that threw Draco off completely so that he was left dumbfounded. There was no denying the fact that Potter was a fucking Quidditch godsend, and Draco wasn't. He cut himself off and looked away, busying himself with his own locker. "Nevermind."

"Aw, sorry Draco, the truth hurts." Draco's head snapped around as Potter stood there smirking at him. _And here's the climax, _his subconscious said, _the part where everything gets all icky and nasty. Women start crying around this part, you know. And gasping, and everything. _"I didn't think it would take seven years for you to get it through your thick head that I'll always be the better Quidditch player, though. I thought maybe four was enough–even five. But you still modeled yourself as the star player even last year. Shame..."

It wasn't the _words _that jilted Draco to slam Potter up against the cold tiled wall–no, the words went past him and died in mid-air. He didn't know what it was but it made him want to strangle Potter; and not just strangle, strangle and kiss at the same time, and not _just _strangle and kiss, strangle and tangle and turn and toss and violate. _There's a word for this, _Draco thought as his grey eyes searched the face in front of him, _unresolved sexual whatsit. Oh Merlin, this is why I hate drama sometimes. It gets the better of you._

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" Potter spat, looking at Draco straight in the eyes.

"I don't know," Draco muttered fiercely, before lunging forward and kissing him the exact same way.

It was true, he really didn't know. He didn't know what it was that made him turn the innocent enough locker room into a steamy atmosphere of unresolved sexual tension. He didn't know what it was that made him act the way he had acted; or yearn for the things he yearned for: like the taste of tangy maltese orange and hot mint–Potter's mouth– or the wide green eyes that were smoky and hushed; like a secret–a mirror of Draco's own grey ones. It was uncanny and irresistible and it was fission and ooh. It was certainly all that jazz.

Page after page; scene after scene; and dialogue after dialogue filled Draco's angst chronicles. The settings were varied (The Quidditch Pitch, the Showers, the Broom Closets, the Locker Rooms, his Fantasies), but the actions were the same (there was the splendid attack of the lips; then the tie came off and the neck was the center spot; everything downwards was optional and made everything so much more _bad_). Even as the act came to an end, Draco still didn't know what exactly 'it' was, and neither did Harry. And you know what? Neither of them cared very much. It was all a siren-silk spun web, and both of them were caught in it for free.

At two in the morning, when Draco was finally dipping into sleep, he realized what it was: angst. And a lot of it.

_Interlude..._

Draco hated sappy romance plays like the ones his mother and her friends would occasionally attend, because everyone practically DIED and CRIED and SOBBED and the plot was coated in a mixture of SEX and DRAMA and ANGST. Angst. Draco liked that word. It had the kind of ring to it that made lights sparkle, and violin music start playing, and it made women cry, and it made the horror music start on cue. Angst was big and he didn't want to look at it but he had to. He could see those damn headlines now--Draco Malfoy, Startling New Playwright of the Mind--Spurred by the Revelation of Angst!

That's when the title of Drama Queen instantaneously shifted to Angst Whore.

_--_

ACT ONE; SCENE TWO: -FIN-


	3. Chapitre Trois

A/N: Just to let you know, I've already written this series, so that's why I'm just putting the chapters up so quickly. I can't write a good chapter in 5 minutes. (I can finish one, though. :)) So. Here's the third one. Only one left!  
Dedication: To teh **LJ Whores. **(Same as always.) You rawk.  
Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Harry Potter. Well, I own the books and a Gryffindor scarf and the soundtracks and some calenders, but I don t own the copyrights.

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

_Prelude..._

He didn't start wearing all black. He didn't walk around pouting and sulking. And for Merlin's sake did he NOT go around wearing blotches of kohl around his eyes and a black--oh, God forbid--beret. He wasn't an Angst Whore like an _Angst_ Whore, just an Angst Whore like your typical Angst Whore. Confused much? So was Draco. He didn't know much of what he was; only that he liked being angsty.

It changed his lines.

DRACO: Come hither.

HARRY: I'm going to smack you.

Alright, so it wasn't really like that. But it was weird. And strange. And that was when Harry Potter began teaching Draco Malfoy a few new tricks of his own drama trade.

His life was a huge mess of angst and he didn't need any of it, Harry told Draco as he pushed him up against the wall, frantically messing with the striped green-and-silver tie. No more angst. Keep it to yourself. Keep writing your scenes and make them the way you want them to, but for fuck's sake, let's bottle up the angst. Let's pull out the sexual tension and let it coat the air. Because angst is for lovers, right? And we're not.

**ACT ONE,**

**SCENE THREE**:

**The Drama Trade, According to Harry Potter**

**or**

**Angst, According to Draco Malfoy**

SETTING: Everywhere you don't want to be

CHARACTERS: DRACO _the playwright_, HARRY

_the muse_/_Amazing Angst Boy_

Had you walked into his room at that 'era' (he still calls it that today), you would have found his side of the room littered (neatly) with an assortment of books–_plays, _to be more precise. _Dramas, _if you wanted to get specific, and _tragedies, _if you even wanted to go that far. He hid them artistically under robes and spellbooks, and even managed to _accio _a bit of stone off the floor in the corner so he could hide _Romeo and Juliet, _his worst guilty pleasure–er, research study.

It was confirmed: Draco Malfoy was curling up by the fire with a hot and naked Angst.

No, black was not the_ new _black (it had always been). He did not start to use Pansy's eyeliner, or her musky perfume that smelled like dying forget-me-nots (God forbid). He did not take a leaf from Fleur's book and start wearing fluffy baby blue berets (Fluffy! _Fluff!_), and he did not walk around strutting his hips in strange ways. His outward appearance did not change in the slightest–it was his _moods. _And yes, he was still filthy in his words and evil in his gestures, but there was _some_thing about Draco Malfoy that left a few people unperturbed.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you depressingly before smirking, or how he made everything sound so startling and life-threatening. "Give me the goddamn _butter,_" he would snarl, crooking his finger slightly, his eyes glinting. "_Now._" People raised their eyebrows but didn't say anything, because Draco Malfoy had weird phases and this was probably one of them, and when Draco heard this, he replied: "How _dare _you–I am _not _going through a phase. Phases are for Hufflepuffs...! _Honestly!_"

All of this, of course, did not get past Harry Potter, The Muse who Lived.

There was something _different _in the way Draco pushed him against walls and slowly snaked his tie off of the collar–it used to be a _dirty _thing and a _smutty _thing and a _dangerous _thing, like poison. It made him gasp because he didn't want to do it, wasn't supposed to be doing it, but _was, _and with Draco AngstWhoreDramaQueen Malfoy, nonetheless. But nowadays, it wasn't just sweat and sheen and slick superiority, it was _sublime–_

**sublime **_adj _: 1. Characterized by nobility; majestic.

a. Of high spiritual, moral, or intellectual worth.  
b. Not to be excelled; supreme.

2. Inspiring awe; impressive.

Yes, it was all of those. It wasn't as if Harry _didn't _like it. Oh, he liked it, alright, in the way you liked but hated. _Loved, _but hated. But it was still a problem. Because Draco–Draco was kissing–Draco was touching–Draco was _looking_–like he was actually in love.

OhfortheloveofMerlin.

HARRY: _/walking up to Draco in the hallway/ _Malfoy.

DRACO: _/turning away from where was looking/ _What, Potter?

HARRY: _/grabbing his arm/ _We need to talk.

DRACO: _/smirking/ _Potter, that's my line. Don't steal all the dramatics.

HARRY: _/pulling Draco into an empty classroom/ _Really, Malfoy–we do.

DRACO: _/puzzled/ _Alright then Potter, let me go call of the siege. What's wrong with you?

At this point Harry wanted to be cliche, fierce, and hurtful all at the same time. He wanted to slap Malfoy across the face (_ooh_), shove his elbow into his solar plexus (_oow_), and maybe whisper a few words into his ear that were mean but cliched and expected–"You! You're my problem! _You!_". But Harry knew better. Actually, he knew a lot more than people thought.

Which was why he turned the tables a little, and settled not for 'cliche-but-useful', but for 'angsty-and-useful'.

Unfortunately, that was what Draco _wanted._

HARRY: Look, Malfoy, I don't know _what's _gotten into you lately–

DRACO: _/tugging on HARRY'S tie/ _What, you mean...

HARRY: _/jerking away/ _Stop! See, this is exactly what I mean. What _happened _to you?

DRACO: Nothing happened to me, Potter, you're _imagining _things, don't–

HARRY: Me? Imagining things? Ha. _/he snorts./ _Don't make me laugh, Malfoy. I'm not the only one who watches you as you practically fucking _waltz _down the corridors. And how you tilt your head to the right whenever you talk. And how you gasp and do weird things with your eyes so it makes it look like you're in some kind of Shakespearean tragedy, or whatever–

DRACO: Really? Is that it?

HARRY: Yes! That's–

DRACO: Good. _/he examines his nails./_ I wanted to have that effect.

We pause for a moment of silent screaming. (Bang your head against the wall if you like, as well.)

HARRY: _/angry/ _Malfoy, are you for real?

DRACO: _/slightly shocked/ _Why, I do believe I am. Pinch me, I might be dreaming–

_/And Harry does pinch Draco, _hard, _which is a shocking, crude, gesture, and it makes Draco squeal–like a girl–and it makes Harry retaliate quickly as if he has touched poison. The two look at each other. DRACO is amused no longer./_

DRACO: _/spitting/ _What the fuck was that for, Potter! You _bruised _me! I'm _delicate!_

HARRY: _/mumbling, not looking at Draco/ _You were pissing me off.

DRACO: I didn't have a _reason _to, unless you count your breathing.

HARRY: _/throwing his hands up in the air/ _Tell me, Malfoy–what's your motif? What do you _want? _You slam me up against walls and kiss me like I'm the last guy–_person_–on earth, you run your hands over me like I'm silk or something, and yet you still treat me like shit. Like you've always treated me. Only lately–you've been doing it like you're some _actor. _You're so confusing!

DRACO: _/rubbing his bruise/ _I don't have to tell _you, _Potter.

HARRY: No, wait. _/he points a finger in DRACO'S direction./ _It doesn't have anything to do with this _angst _thing, does it?

DRACO: _/defiant/ _No, it does _not!_

HARRY: _/angry again/ _Oh, Merlin–it does!

DRACO: It does not, Potter–don't jump to conclusions.

HARRY: This isn't a conclusion, Malfoy. It's the truth.

_/DRACO is silent, but there is a flush on his cheeks./_

HARRY: _/quietly/ _Malfoy, let me tell you something. You don't know what angst is.

DRACO: _/whining slightly/ _Don't tell me what I don't know, I do _too–_

HARRY: No. Draco. You don't.

DRACO: _/eyes open wide at the sound of his name/ _

HARRY: Look. You don't know what it is. You're a spoiled, rich brat, and the only definition of angst you know is making everything dramatic, so you can make all the girls cry. _/DRACO looks away./ _But you don't really know what it is, do you? _/gives no pause/ _You think it means, make everything a big deal. You think it means to add zing to something boring, to spice it up, to create violin music out of thin air.

_/there is a pause./_

HARRY: That's such a messed up definition, Malfoy. That's not what angst is. Angst is–angst is when you _ache. _Badly. Angst is when you want to crawl under the bed and stay there because it hurts too much. Angst is...angst isn't _you, _Malfoy, angst isn't upper crust-society, Pureblood-mania. It's–it's something you just don't understand. It's _depression. _It's _sadness._ What you did before–without _this_– _/he gestures to the air/. _That was okay. It was, uh, unresolved sexual, thingy.

DRACO: _/muttering/ _Tension.

HARRY: _/shrugging/ _Whatever. But, that's what it was. That was fine. That was okay. It wasn't different than us throwing punches at each other. But now? With you actually _trying/shaking his head/ _That's not you, Malfoy. You act like we're angsty, entwined soulmates. _Lovers. /he laughs bitterly./ _That's not us, Malfoy. Go back to the way you were. I _have _enough angst in my life. Trust me. I don't need any more from you.

_/the two are silent. DRACO, still holding his bruise, runs a hand through his hair and turns around. His eyes are cold. HARRY steps back./_

DRACO: You know, Potter, for someone who talks so much, you sure talk a lot of _shit. _

HARRY: _/startled/ _What–?

DRACO: _/stepping forward, angry/ _You talk like you know everything. 'Angst isn't you, Draco! Don't be angry! I'm just the Boy who Sodding Lived and I don't want anymore _sadness! _Oh, boo hoo! I want my _mummy!_' _/he narrows his eyes./ _Well, listen here, Potter. Maybe I'm not cut out for angst. But you're not cut out to tell me what to do.

HARRY: _Draco–_

DRACO: _/walking towards the door/ _And don't call me _Draco._

_/He opens the door, steps out, and swings it shut./_

Act One, Scene Three ends here. It does not end because the play ends here. It does not end because Draco wants the reader sobbing and sighing in depression, mourning about the high amounts of unresolved sexual tension that was _obviously _doing dangers to both of their moods. Act One, Scene Three ends here for the sole reason that Draco found no reason to go on. He could have gone on; ranting and raving about how stupid and wrong Potter was–

–but what if he _wasn't?_

Malfoys hate being wrong, and Draco was experiencing the _real_ feeling of angst at the moment. Had he known, we're sure he would have abandoned the title of Angst Whore in a second. Angst is not actinglike you have your own personal Smallest Violin-Violinist, or having a fresh supply of tears on demand. Angst is knowing that you're wrong–that he's right–that the words _'lovers–that's not us' _could affect you more than you possibly thought–

DRACO: _/mumbling/ _And that you're not fucking liking it at all.

_--_

ACT ONE; SCENE THREE: -FIN-


	4. Chapitre Quatre

A/N: Last chapter. wink Hope you enjoyed. It's gone well on LiveJournal, it's getting on fine here. Next stop? Astronomy Tower! mwah Love you _all._  
Dedication: My LJ h0rs. There ain't no stoppin' us now, loffs.  
Disclaimer: I don't own–oh...you know it by now.

The Draco Malfoy Angst Chronicles

_Prelude..._

Draco hated sappy romance plays but he hated it even more when his own manuscript started sounding like one. Potter, he responded to Harry's fevered look. Read this.

He leaned forward. There were new lines.

HARRY: Angst is for lovers, right? And we're not.  
DRACO: Angst is for everybody. Potter. You've just had too much of it and I want some of it.  
HARRY: Then you're saying--  
DRACO: I'm saying everything.

_x x_

**ACT ONE,**

**SCENE FOUR**:

**Draco Malfoy Says Everything**

SETTING: Everywhere you don't want to be

CHARACTERS: DRACOHARRY

Avoidance was not a Malfoy trait.

Confrontation was a Malfoy trait. Getting in someone else's face was a Malfoy trait. Bickering, upbraiding, yelling, scolding–all of those were part of the Malfoy code of conduct. What wasn't, though, was the precarious and delicate art of avoiding somebody.

Draco had to work on it.

He didn't _like _hiding behind pillars, or shifting his Potions book so that he couldn't look a certain way. Talking _around _a subject was not his thing, and walking faster than his leisurely pace just to get out of someone's way made him twitch. The really stupid thing, though, was _who _Draco was avoiding.

We're not even going to say who.

It was stupid of him, really. He shouldn't be avoiding Potter (of course it was him) just because of some stupid misfit. They'd practically had one every day, every hour, every waking minute–even when he was kissing him (and there came the furious blush) or trying to shut him up so he didn't make a lot of noise (accompanied by the furious mumbling).

But he was, because he thought he was angry at Potter for being the wee little angst boy.

"Stupid _Potter_," Draco scowled, trying to study in the current emptiness of his dormitory, "stupid _Potter _and his stupid _tricks. _Trying to get everyone to _love him _because he's so _angsty._" The words in front of him blurred, and, irritated, he shut his eyes. "Because he's led such a horrifying, sad life, oh, boo-hoo–let's all just kiss baby Potty on the nose and watch him sniffle, because that's the right thing to do. Let's not do anything about it but suffer _for _him. Hah!" He slammed his quill onto the parchment so hard the tip snapped, but he paid no attention. "What does he think he is, a god? Hell...if _anyone's _going to be _anyone's _god in this school, it's going to be me, and it's going to be–"

And there was the catch. He hadn't realized what he was saying: being too furious to think before he spoke, he ended up ranting without paying mind to the words coming out of his mouth. In essence, he had just said he was going to be somebody's god–somebody's saviour, somebody's lifeline. Someone's omnipotent angel...someone's...someone's...

"No," he started again, calmly this time, trying to erase what he'd said before, "I won't be _anyone's _god. I'll–" to his surprise his voice cracked, and he winced: he hardly ever did that, and it embarrassed him. "–I'll be my own god, have my own rules, live my own life, and..."

The manuscript in his mind rustled. This was _not _the way his tragedy was supposed to be going. In order to be his own god, he'd have to give everything–everyone–else up. He'd have to live a life of solitude and hope for the goddamned best, because fending for _himself _in the Malfoy way meant fending for himself without anybody around to pamper him. And pampering meant...someone to..._care..._and someone to..._l_–

"Bloody hell," he hissed, getting up abruptly from the chair and spilling the ink from his bottle, but he left it to soak into Blaise's books, not bothering at all. "Why is this happening to me? Stupid Mum and her stupid romance plays, stupid Romeo and Juliet." His eyes darted to the upturned floorboard, and he angrily set it back into place. "Stupid tragedy, stupid life–" he kicked his trunk and tried not to yowl in pain, but it came out differently: "Stupid _Potter!_"

_And what, _his conscience tested him, _does Potter have to do with all this?_

"And stupid CONSCIENCE!" Draco screamed, a bit ballistic now, not really caring if anyone heard him. He had obviously inherited some of the nasty screaming habits Harry had gotten when he turned fifteen–how Draco had vowed himself never to be like that, and _now _look at him. "Who are you to ask what Potter has to do with this? _Saint _Potter! _Beautiful _Potter! _Perfect _Potter! _Savior _Potter! Oh yeah, it's _all _about Harry..._everything _has to do with Harry nowadays, doesn't it!"

Oh yes it did, indeed.

Draco loosened his tie, suddenly finding it way too tight, and leaned against the wall, out of breath and hazy from screaming so much. _Everything is about Harry nowadays. _It used to be all about angst, all about Draco's play. All about his life tragedy, all about _him, _Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, self-proclaimed King of Hogwarts. But now...ever since..._someday..._it was turning out to be all Harry Potter, all the time.

"Damn that man," Draco clenched between his teeth, "damn him for what he did to me." He looked at the spilled ink, the chipped quill, the kicked trunk. "Damn him for what he _does _to me."

_Oh no, _his mind twittered innocently, for the mind knew all, _damn him for what he'll _do_ to you, and damn yourself for what you do back, Draco Malfoy. _

He stalked out the door angrily, shooting dirty looks (and words) at the people in the common room who stared at him. Fuck avoidance. After what he'd just come to terms with, avoiding Harry Potter was the last thing he wanted to do.

_/an empty corridor. DRACO is walking with lengthy strides, apparently not going anywhere, just walking. HARRY walks towards him, looking at the ceiling, not knowing he is walking straight into DRACO./_

HARRY: _/walking/_

DRACO: _/mumbling furiously/_

_/the two boys (men?) near each other dangerously, until it is clear none of them are focused enough to move. Sure enough, they collide with a fierce crash./_

DRACO: _Ow_––!

HARRY: _/on the ground, glasses askew/ _Who the–?

_/both of them, still on the ground, look up. Harry adjusts his glasses./_

DRACO: _/sarcastically/ _Oh, just my luck. It's Saint Potter, the Boy who Loves to Fuck with my Mind.

HARRY: _/quizzically, blinking/ _Malfoy? Is that you?

DRACO: _/still sarcastically/ _No, you twit, it's the heir of Slytherin, come back to try and make you snuff it once again.

HARRY: Oh, okay. Malfoy, then. _/getting up/ _What do you want?

DRACO: _/who seems to have forgotten his previous anger/ _I was just walking. I can take a walk, can't I?

HARRY: _/grinning/ _I dunno, Malfoy, I just thought you'd be in your dorm, scratching out a little more of that so-called angsty tragedy of yours–whatsup, did your muse piss you off–?

_/and suddenly Draco remembers, as he takes a fistful of Harry's shirt and slams him into the wall, much like he has done dozens of times before, only this time he has different intentions./_

HARRY: _/shocked/ _Malfoy, what the hell is your prob–

DRACO: I didn't know you were a Seer, Potter.

HARRY: I...I'm not–

DRACO: Then you're obviously very intuitive. Thinking that my muse pissed me off. Because in fact, my stupid muse did in fact piss me off. He pissed me off _a lot. _

HARRY: _He?_

DRACO: No, Potter. She. You know, like a caryatid.

HARRY: _/completely baffled/_

DRACO: Oh, you–Merlin, this is getting stupid. Yes, Potter. You pissed me off so much I thought I'd gone through hell and back and stopped over for a visit in You-Know-Who's robes.

HARRY: _/who has noticed by now that when Draco gets mad, he starts talking very weirdly/ _You're not making sense. I'm your mu–?

DRACO: No, you're just the stupid one! Don't you get it? _You_. Are. My. Problem.

HARRY: And why is that?

DRACO: Because! _/fully ranting now/ _Because you're _everywhere! _And you're everything to everybody! And everybody loves you–

HARRY: _Hey– _

DRACO: I can't just tease you about it anymore, make you feel like shit like I did before. No, no. Because for some absurd and completely asinine reason, I can't do it anymore. I can't remember what it feels like to make_ you_ feel like I just threw you on the ground because you're just everyfuckingwhere! EVERYWHERE! Everywhere I turn, there's a mention of you, a glance of you, or even just you–and that made me numb to the joy I got in killing _yours! _I used to hate you, Potter! Used to hate you, hate you, hate you! And now it's–I _want _to hate you, but you make it hard!

HARRY: _/a little scared, but trying to be calm/ _And why's that?

DRACO: Because of last time. And the times before that. And the times I pushed you up against the wall–like this–and took off your tie–and unbuttoned your shirt–and I did that because I hated you then, too. _I wanted you to suffer. _At least–I thought I did. But then you told me all that crap about you living your whole life carrying a bucket of angst. A bucket, Harry. That's a lot.

HARRY: _/pause/ _Er, are you okay–

DRACO: No, I'm not okay. Shut up and listen. So I thought about it. And you said, oh Malfoy, let's not be angsty because we're not lovers and you're a spoiled rich boy, okay? Let's just, you know, _have raw sex _but _forget about everything else. Including _the angst. I tried! I tried, Harry! I. Tried. But it didn't work. Then I thought, enough of this. I'm going to avoid you. But that was just _more _stupid. And angstier. That made it _more _difficult.

HARRY: _/starting to get it/ _...ah...

DRACO: So now I think I know. What angst is. I proved you wrong, savior Potter, when you said I couldn't know what angst was. Yes! You said that to me! You told me that I could never know, because I was too fragile and lost in my own fantasies, but now I know. I know–I know because–

_/and there is an awkward silence./_

HARRY: _/softly/ _Because?

DRACO: _/faltering/ _Because...

HARRY: _/gently taking DRACO'S hands off his shirt/ _Look, Draco. I didn't think we were lovers. So I didn't want any angst. Honestly, I didn't want any more than I already had. And you made me angry when you talked like you knew everything. Not different from any other day, but this seemed to be different. I–I dunno. The way you intercepted it just made it different. So I thought...no angst. I don't care if _you _want it, I don't need it. But I wanted you to–

DRACO: _/cutting him off/ _Angst is for everybody, Potter. You–you've just had too much of it, and I want some of it.

HARRY: You do? _/shocked, then shaking his head/ _Then–no. You're not saying–you can't be saying–

DRACO: _/hissing/ _I'm. Saying. Everything.

It was vague enough for the passerby not to know what the statement meant, but it was clear enough for Harry to understand, and it was clear enough for Draco to understand, and it was so clear that it made them both cringe for a moment, as if to take in the realization that if angst was for lovers, then they surely were.

Lovers, we mean.

And then Draco was pulling away, trying to run away before anything else happened, because it was new and raw and pink, like a scab, and he didn't want to pick on it but something in the way Harry grabbed his wrist made him come back. Then they looked at each other, still trying to get used to it, as if the transition between hate and love had happened too quickly–since it had. Up until that moment, their belief was hate, their creed was to forever loathe each other. But after that one moment–everything suddenly blurred, and things ceased to make sense, and it all led off from there.

Harry had his hand on Draco's wrist and he tugged and Draco stumbled forward and stiffened, because the contact was all wrong, incongruent, and something didn't belong, but they didn't know what it was. Draco had said everything, but Harry wanted to finalize it, because maybe he didn't _want _any more angst, but by God the man would have to accept it if he wanted to live. Angst comes with the package, and Harry learned that, oh yes he did, as he clumsily brought a strange yet familiar face towards his and pressed his lips against skin–and skin slid around to find lips; wet, shaking, and brutal.

It was all over; or maybe it was just beginning.

They pulled apart but not much: their noses were brushing, and Harry half-realized their hands were clasped together, as if they both wanted to hold onto something for fear of falling. Draco exhaled, and Harry realized he had been holding it long after the kiss broke.

"So...did you get any?"

Draco blinked. "Any what?"

"Any angst. From me–you said you wanted some."

He licked his lips.

"I don't know," Draco answered, "Do you think, Potter, that you'll let me try and get some more?"

_Oh._ Harry ran a hand through his so-called lover's hair, just to feel it, and to reenact the movement that he had seen Draco do fifty million times. "By all means..." There was a satisfied smirk against his lips, and he almost refused to believe it was there–almost, until he realized he actually hated it less than he liked it.

"...be my guest, you angst whore."

_Interlude..._

And so ends the great tragedy of Draco Malfoy. Nowadays he likes to think of it as more of a declaration of his insanity, as falling in love with Harry Potter is by all means not a very sane thing, but it's still his play and from time to time he likes to read it. From time to time, he likes to reenact it, but he knows he'll never add anything to it. His muse was still his muse, and there's still wall-slamming, and tie-choking, and then tie-untying and tie-throwing aside.

According to Draco Malfoy, _angst _has another meaning. He's still experimenting, but he thinks he knows what it is. But all he has to do is just read his play again–and he'll remember.

THE DRACO MALFOY ANGST CHRONICLES: -FIN-

_Omake!_

Draco: Aaaand I'd like to thank my Mum, and Dad–Harry: By the way, Draco, where is your dad? The wizarding world hasn't seen much of him round these parts lately...  
Draco: You'd better shut it, Potter. Anyway–Mum, Dad, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle. Millicent, Blaise. Theodore...Snape–  
Harry: Why the hell're you thanking Snape?  
Draco: Didn't I tell you to shut it? Yes, Snape–and...oh, pity. I think my list is done. Well, that's it. Hope you enjoyed my play, plebes. And the angst and UST and the, you know, really nongraphic sex, but I bet it was really graphic in your minds. Now, Harry. Let's go.  
Harry: Hey, don't _I _get a thanks speech?  
Draco: Are you kidding? I was the main character, hence my emotional breakdown and also because MY NAME HAPPENS TO BE IN THE TITLE. Oh...look at that!  
Harry: You are so...  
Draco: Sexy? Gorgeous? Beautiful? Dazzling? Lovely? Intelligent?  
Harry: ...in for a punishment.  
Draco: Oooh. _That _sounds lovely.  
Harry/glower/  
Draco: I mean... /in a horribly false voice/ 'Oh, Harry. I am so scared. Please. Help me. Aaah. I fear I will be hurt very much very soon. Oh, goodness–'  
Harry: You can stop now...  
Draco: Right, then. /waving to audience/ Well, we must be off–I've got a punishment to be had.  
Harry: Must you tell everyone?  
Draco: Come on, they want to know. Maybe someone will fic it.  
Harry/blushing/ Uh-uh. No way. NOW LET'S GO.  
Draco: Once again, Harry Potter...the Boy who Loves to Fuck with my Mind–  
Harry: –and that's not all!  
Draco: And you tell _me _to be decent? Come on, Potter. You're as dirty as the bottom of Weasley's sink.  
Ron: HEY!  
Harry: Er...we _really _should be going now.  
Draco: Awww...  
Hermione/pops in/ I most certainly do not bear any resemblance at all to a bush.  
Pansy: Putasockinnit, Bushy.  
Hermione: Don't. Even. Go. There.

_  
The Honest to God End. Really!  
_


End file.
